


La petite mort

by Papaveri



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 08:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5041135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papaveri/pseuds/Papaveri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment he wants him to go deeper, deeper still, up to the hilt, till the blade breaks out his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La petite mort

G o t e s d e s a n g

 

espines de

lliga-amant

feriu ma carn 

 

* * *

 

He feels a vague awareness that he should be hot more than the heat itself, that with the gentle orange glow that illuminates what little is visible of his skin and makes the moving, pulsing dark blotches in it more apparent.

But at times, he's forgotten that he's supposed to breathe (in fact his lungs stop for longer than they should when he hears footsteps because he recognizes the rhythm of them, the split second of silence in between the thumps; a lovely burn in his chest, almost innocent dryness in his mouth).

Lyon sees Ephraim and his vision blurs. When he speaks, the words are barely his and they scratch his throat till they draw blood.

(There's something so intimately satisfying in the way his voice cracks and booms and suffocates him like a forest fire, in the way it's wrecking his body to the point that some sentences are little more than liquid hisses, in the way, in the way Ephraim looks at him and oh how his eyes darken when he hears Lyon insulting himself – something, something so good in that resolved death threat that doesn't stop his feet from moving closer, in hands that become white with strength around the shaft of the spear).

“Don't _take_ a step further.” There are more words, but Lyon doesn't hear them. A part of him, small and cornered and too primal for comfort, stirs up when Ephraim's stance changes, and for a second it makes him focus on the blade of the spear, dirty and sharp.

His voice has the shadow of a tremor when he ( _it_ , _it_ , hateful and hopeful disconnection) replies.

“Oh. Will you really?”

Blood trickles down his chin with the last word, when his tone lowers to end the question.

Ephraim's spear goes almost right through him and leaves the unspeakable feeling of cold metal in his gut.

 

He remembers

**

he moved too fast and didn't really know what he was doing: the practice lance Ephraim got him was too heavy, even if he had lied about it, but it turned in his hands as if it was something alive and its blunt end hit his makeshift teacher in the face.

Ephraim swore in a language Lyon wasn't expecting and that harsh word, more than the blood, had made him grab on the spear tighter.

“I-- Ephraim, are you okay?”

His hands were red and his smile was red and his eyes had a strange glint and Lyon swallowed (it had been embarrassing, mostly; he had wanted to run, to run away and to run his fingers through the bloodied mess that was Ephraim's nose, all at the same time.

To kiss it, even, taste the broken skin and the smallest bit of bone. In a reflex movement, he had felt the sharp rim of his teeth with his tongue).

**

and then forgets.

The pain is oddly calm at first and then it blooms like the wound in his stomach, but the thing inside him eats it up while he bleeds out, he falls apart almost on Ephraim's arms – when his legs feel weak, he too grabs on the shaft of the weapon and forces himself standing again, forces the blade down a bit and stirs up his insides.

Lyon feels a corner of his mouth rising, rigid and unnatural.

(The cold inside him dies out pretty fast, liquefies, biting like a piece of ice held for too long).

“You stupid kid.”

For a moment Lyon desperately tries to avoid the impulse, but his arm jerks the spear _deeper_ , Ephraim stumbles _closer_ and he gasps in a way that almost has him laughing through the ugly wave that goes up his throat.

And he realizes, like a flash, how close the stone is, how close Ephraim's hand is to the wound. _It could almost go inside me, almost, almost--_

His fingers close around the bracelet and it's as surprising as the first time, the way a thing he had believed so much bigger than himself just gives up against his palm and cracks, brittle like bad china. The shards don't even shine in a hand that's so dirty it doesn't look like a part of himself (under the blood, his fingers have become like pieces of charcoal and even after all of that, after the king of Renais and his father and his generals and his army falling, after the metal inside him fusing with his flesh until he doesn't feel it except for the slight trembling of Ephraim's arm, even after all of that he's proud of that mark. And that pride is _all his_ ).

Ephraim speaks again and his words are clearer.

“I'll take you with me,” he says, oh, and that, that makes him shudder, the spear still inside him like a promise, reassuring, _he means it_.

 

(And in the end Lyon is allowed a small moment for himself, he's allowed to put his fist on Ephraim's chest and move close enough his fingers graze the open wound -- that, that's the blessing, his very own victory.

“Listen.” A hand opening, leaving trails. “I've always loved you. I've always hated you.”

The pause in Ephraim's eyes.

 

Yet the last words are only half his; Lyon grips on the shaft of the spear again, with a strength that doesn't belong to his arms.

“What now?”)

 

**Author's Note:**

> The bit at the start is from a Catalan poem called 'Jaculatòria', by Joan Salvat-Papasseit. Look it up! It's a calligram, so it's supposed to be seen, mostly. Anyhow, the translation is kind of tricky. "Drops of blood/ Thorns of/ bind-lover/ wound my flesh". I have honestly no good idea on how to translate 'lliga-amant', but 'lligar' is the verb for 'to tie up'. Also the title is Bad, French for 'little death' which also means an orgasm.
> 
> Those are the little things that make my cultural background sort of weird, and this fic the most pretentious thing in the whole section of Ao3 but hey. Hey! I've always been like that. I've always also been inspired by friends, and this was, as usual, Colette's idea (kudos go to them!). 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I want to do a Special Thing for the NaNoWriMo this year, so you might see me around here more often -3-


End file.
